


Down with the Sickness

by UnshoddenShipper



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Everybody Lives, M/M, bilbo built a hobbit hole at erebor because why the fuck not, post quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:23:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnshoddenShipper/pseuds/UnshoddenShipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Hobbit kinkmeme over on Livejournal. Prompt:</p>
<p>Bofur gets hurt or ill somehow, quite seriously. Everyone does their bit but one person really goes out of their way to try and comfort and care for him. Would love it to be Bilbo, for all the times Bofur has looked out for him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sick

Wracking coughs rattled through the smail again, spurring Bilbo to hurry his tea making. The hobbit's movements were sharp, and his brow clouded. Scuttling into the bedroom, steaming kettle held with a washcloth, he sped to the bedside where a large dwarf lay. He was propped on an elbow, lungs convulsing noisily, eyes shut in pain as his body tried to push wretchedness passed his inflamed throat.

"My poor Bofur," Bilbo murmured, placing a cooling hand on his sweaty cheek. The dwarrow was a delighful furnace of heat in his health, but as his body tried to fight infection, he literally singed to the touch. Bilbo held his hand there for a moment regardless, knowing his touch comforted the toymaker.

"Hardly poor, am I," the infirm rasped, eyes closed, "When I ‘ave you to call mine."

Bilbo scoffed, turning to mix healer’s herbs into a cup of tea. Unable to speak much, Bofur groaned his displeasure, sending himself into another coughing fit.

"I’ll drown you in it if it heals you."

"Well that seems counterproductive." His voice was so small and scratchy.

Bilbo smirked and sat on the bed beside him, holding the cup to sick lips. Bofur swallowed diligently, giving him an indulgent look though half-lidded eyes. “I’m no dwarfling, ya know,” He stopped to breath frequently as he spoke. “I can, mind meself- and you’ll catch yer death… watchin’ after me like this.” 

"Hush, it’s my duty to care for you." Peeling the damp cloth from his brow, Bilbo kissed him soundly on his scorching forehead, pressing him firmly back against the pillows. Taking the cloth, he soaked it in a basin of cool water as the miner smiled sleepily at him. He grinned softy back, wringing it out. Gently but surely, he wiped Bofur’s feverish face.

"Why don’t you, let me fester in… the guest room? There’s no need for me to- no," he coughed here, "No, hear me now, no need for, you to not have our bed." The cloth was settled once more above his eyes.

"How are you going to be back on your feet when you refuse to rest while you rest?" Bilbo had his hands on his hips now, eyebrow raised. "Sleep, I’ll bring you some bread and broth later."

Muttering something the hobbit couldn’t make sense of, Bofur settled back in their nest and closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his mouth, his nose thoroughly stuffed. Bilbo slowed to a stop at the doorway, gazing back over his shoulder. Poor Bofur, indeed. He was pale, cream as the sheets, in stark contrast to his dark hair, tumbling all thick and wavy and unbraided about him. His mustache lacked its usual upturn, his eyelids were heavy and dark, his breath rasped. His night shirt was open, showing a furred chest covered in balm. Bilbo shook his head worriedly, grateful for the gentle breeze wafting through the window. Bofur didn’t complain, but Bilbo knew he hated feeling cooped up.

Seemed odd for a dwarf, but the again, he wasn’t one to talk of stereotypes. What with living in a hobbit-hole cobbled with dwarf-stone in the side of the Lonely Mountain.

As Bilbo was boiling bones for said broth, there came a polite knock at the door. He gave the visitor leave without looking up, and in strode Oin, one arm laden with plants- some of which, he was sure, came from Bilbo’s garden. 

"Don’t you worry, laddie; we’ll get that toymaker a yers fixed up in no time," the elder grinned.

"I certainly hope so," Bilbo said a bit louder and slower than he would normally, turning his head to project towards the hearing trumpet. The old dwarf took no offense to folks speaking louder to him- if anything, he preferred it- but Bilbo was pretty sure Oin still claimed deafness simply when he wasn’t interested.

"Basil, Thyme, Caraway, Yarrow..." Oin muttered to himself, sprawling all his pickings across the counter in an organized mess. "Ah!" He glanced up, plucking several leaves from one of many dried plants hanging about the place. "Eucalyptus, lovely."

Both were content to let the other work, going about their healer’s duties in companionable silence. As Oin was grinding a complicated looking mixture in the pestle and mortar, a second, brisker rapping was heard. ”Come in!” They chimed in unison.

Bombur and Bifur entered, both appearing very concerned, and Dori with them, holding a basket. The stripe of yellow light from outside was shut out as Dori closed the Rune-carved door, and Bifur began the exchange all business, grunting and gesturing to the bedroom door. 

"A very high fever and inflamed throat, I’m afriad," Bilbo repeated the story he’d told Balin, and Fili, and Gloin, who’d told Ori and Dwalin, who spread it to Thorin, who told Kili, and Nori, and he’d had every member of the Company in here at some point today. Sometimes with spouses but never their children, lest they catch something from their Uncle Bofur.

"Poor brother!" Bombur exclaimed, worry making his pudgy face look like a puppy’s in the rain. "May he be visited, master burglar? You know I’d have come sooner, but the kitchens couldn’t manage it…"

"He’s asleep at the moment, but if you don’t mind exposing yourself more to-" And Bombur was already making haste, Bifur in tow, creeping into the room and shutting the door softly.

"Terribly sorry, Bilbo," Dori came and set his basket- some baked treats and a bottle of honey wine, it appeared- on the table, "It’s always foul business, loved ones ill. I brought you some little things to cheer your days- and honey is good for the sick, if Bofur can be made to drink it later on."

Bilbo beamed tiredly at him, thanking him profusely- if anybody around here knew how to show a hobbitish sentiment, it was Dori.

The trio spoke comfortably for a bit, before Bifur and Bombur returned to the main room, closing the bedroom door with a soft thud. “He looks miserable,” Bombur observed as they approached.

"He’ll be fiiine," Oin soothed with his low voice, practiced at reassuring relatives of the ailing. "I’ve seen worse, much worse. This be hardly more than the sniffles ya caught both as youngsters. A couple nights to sweat this outta ‘im, at most, an’ ‘e’ll be back to his usual self."

When the broth was ready, the visitors took their cue and left, each giving him some variation of headbutt and reassuring back-pat.

Oin gave him parting instructions on administering medicine during the night, which Bilbo made thrice-sure he got correct. Dori promised food would continue to be brought, so that Bilbo didn’t have to cook for himself during this “trying time”.

Bifur clasped the hobbits’ arms and thanked him seriously in Khuzdul, he was fairly positive, and true to form Bombur followed the procession last. He smiled down at Bilbo in that unique, knowing way shared between the brother and the spouse, and Bilbo grinned back.

He closed the door and leaned his head against it, grin turning rueful. So many blasted dwarves in his life.

But there was one who needed him once again, now. So he poured a bowl of broth, and took one of Dori’s fresh rolls, and pushed into the bedroom.


	2. Sicker

Bofur, propped up on fluffed pillows and coughing, wasn’t aware of his hobbit’s entrance, or the day’s stream of wellwishers and family- he was fading in and out of dreamless sleep, and mostly-consciousness, and the odd feverish trance Bilbo saw now. Bofur’s eyes were cracking open, his body awakening at Bilbo’s presence. Setting the meal on the bedside table, the hobbit silently took his usual seat on the bed, eyes on his dwarf. Tenderly brushing hair from Bofur’s brow, it was apparent the wet cloth across his forehead was already warmed by feverish skin. 

Bilbo’s worry surged. He took the cloth, and ran fingers down a scalding cheek, unflinching at the sting.

"My father was taken by sickness, you know," Bilbo murmured as he soaked the cloth. "He wore his body down, during the Fell Winter… trekking out in the snow, helping people." He began unbuttoning the dwarf’s virtually useless tunic, talking quietly to him in a soothing voice. "They said his kindness was his greatest fault," he grinned with wry fondness, now easing Bofur out of his shirt with utmost care. "Then, when we thought it never would, the spring came. And I thought we could move on. But I was very young, and of course you never imagine life without your father." The dwarf’s skin burned and his eyes watered at it, but he wrapped an arm under him, slowly lifting his dwarf, and steadied Bofur's weight against his own body, Bofur’s head resting comfortably on his shoulder. 

"But years later," He reached over to the basin and pulled out the cloth, squeezing excess water off, "Because of his weakened state from the Winter," And with it he began cooling the bare skin of Bofur’s back. "So the healer said, he fell to fever. He was a good hobbit, dependable, and warm, but I often wonder," he shifted his place against the dwarf, so he cradled Bofur tenderly against his chest, looking down into his peaked face. "I wonder what he would have thought of you."

He redipped the cloth and began stroking Bofur’s overheating face and neck, only to suddenly support the dwarf as he launched into another of his raging coughing fits. Holding fast, Bofur’s whole body convulsed in Bilbo’s arms, lungs rattling and gasping, fighting for him. Those valiant lungs were at least as beloved to Bilbo as they were Bofur.

Clinging, Bilbo held him through the episode, heart tugging with each jump of the dwarf’s frame. Finally, Bofur was left shakily breathing, eyes squeezed shut, wetness pushed from them. “Shhh,” Bilbo tenderly brushed it away with his thumb. “Shhh.” Kissing his forehead, Bilbo washed the miner’s shoulders, his throat, and just above his chest, wishing he could wash over the balm too. Instead, he resigned to heeding Oin and reapplying the gooey mess, wishing it would work faster, work better. His poor Bofur.

Bofur came around some time later, after the broth had gone cold and Bilbo heated it again quick as he could. Dwarf on his back, doing his best to hold himself up as the burglar supported him, they worked together to get it slowly down Bofur’s maddened throat. Bilbo had worried about feeding him more heat, but Bofur seemed so soothed by it. 

Some raspy “thank you”s and “me love”s were all Bofur could manage that night, making it clear to Bilbo his mate was weakening by the hour. He considered running for Oin as he fluffed the pillows, but couldn’t bring himself to leave Bofur’s side if only for short trips. Dwarves would be here on the morrow, and unless there was an emergency, the pair would just have to wait it out together until then.

As Bofur slept, Bilbo emptied the wash basin, filled it anew, closed the windows, lit the candles, tidied up a bit and restocked his bedside access of whatever implements he thought they could need.

Making himself a strong cup of tea, Bilbo hopped and rubbed and shook sleep away. Taking the whole kettle too, the the little hobbit pulled a book and a chair to the dwarf’s side, settling himself in for a night of vigil. This would get worse before it got better.


End file.
